It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
Fortified in his habitual steel, mettle, grit, and determination, the Sword and his unicorn made the inevitable trek towards the Temple. Every footfall felt like trepidation, a noose, choking dread fitting itself in tight coils around his neck, and he shook them off dutifully, only for it all to return. They’d applied preparation after preparation: snow moss, food, water, perches, offerings, and somehow, likely due to all the other past events he’d experienced, he thought it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing ever was.
But they’d tried, and perhaps it would amount to something.
With a tight, barely-there smile and nod extended to Rexanna (an inquisitive arch of his brow to the child laden in her arms; those moments of meet, greet, and congratulations could come later), he leaned against the Temple door, extending it wide and open for all of them to pass. He probably was not a favored greeter, but at the very least a stoic, bestial monolith, intending to safeguard them as best he could from the impending damnation. Restlessness already curled and contorted along his limbs, and his gaze extended out over those wandering within, taking count, measures, calculations. Zuriel paid no heed to anyone else around her, taking hold of Deimos’ bag in her teeth (laden with armor, with armaments, with weaponry), and settling in amongst a spot by the hearth.
But they’d tried, and perhaps it would amount to something.
With a tight, barely-there smile and nod extended to Rexanna (an inquisitive arch of his brow to the child laden in her arms; those moments of meet, greet, and congratulations could come later), he leaned against the Temple door, extending it wide and open for all of them to pass. He probably was not a favored greeter, but at the very least a stoic, bestial monolith, intending to safeguard them as best he could from the impending damnation. Restlessness already curled and contorted along his limbs, and his gaze extended out over those wandering within, taking count, measures, calculations. Zuriel paid no heed to anyone else around her, taking hold of Deimos’ bag in her teeth (laden with armor, with armaments, with weaponry), and settling in amongst a spot by the hearth.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
